Ashes of Altansar
by Mystic Eraser
Summary: Phoenix Lord Maugan Ra embarks on a quest to recover the renmants of his past life...(Chapter 2 will be up soon! I promise!)


Disclaimer: I do not own Warhammer 40,00 or any of the distinctive likenesses about it. Games Workshop owns all that.

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Chapter 1

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O great were those who foresaw 

The ancient empire's fall

Those who fled the crumbling halls

Into space bereft of law

Not to answer the Enemy's call

-Ancient Eldar Hymn

A mocking wind caressed the surface of Cetevros IV. On the lush green planet once lived a tribe of Exodites, the Eldar that fled to find better futures before the Fall. They flourished on the planet, living a happy, unguarded life.

Until Chaos arrived.

A cruiser of the World Eaters Traitor Legion appeared in the system. The Space Marines onboard, insane with boredom after drifting in the Warp for hundreds of years, fell upon the planet like a swarm of brazen locusts. The Eldar struggled to defend their homeworld, but as foot after foot, mile after mile of their birthplace was devoured by the ravening horde, they realized that they were doomed. Even as the maddened minions of Chaos pounded on the door of their last strongholds, the Cetevrites activated an ancient distress beacon, broadcasting a desperate plea for help to their Craftworld kin. Fortunately, a Biel-Tan patrol picked up the faint signal, and the Seers agreed unanimously that such an atrocity could not go ignored. A fleet was sent.

The warships forewent the slower but more stable webways, instead risking their very souls in a long-distance warp jump. Even as the multitude of vessels arrived in the system unscratched, every warrior knew in their heart that it was too late. The World Eaters released a massive wildfire that soon consumed the entire planet. Vowing bitter revenge, the Swordwind dropped onto the planet en masse. Even without their Avatar, Guardians ran recklessly into battle, weapons firing point blank range. Aspect Warriors in Falcons swooped around the Chaos host, slashing them with laser fire then charging into their flanks. A trio of Chaos Dreadnoughts shot down a squad of Jetbikes, their riders crashing their smoking vehicles into the armored behemoths in revenge. Banshees fought Raptors with sizzling weapons. Farseers collapsed from both the physical and mental heat. Then the tide turned.

A mysterious figure joined the battle. His name alone struck blind terror into the heart of Chaos. A whirlwind of bone and slashing blades, he bought the Eldar enough time to regroup and rout the traitor Marines. Some tried to flee the world, only to gaze at the sky in horror as the sleek Eldar warships blasted their orbiting cruiser into a thousand pieces, entering the atmosphere like shooting stars. Surrounded by their foes and abandoned by their patron god, not a single spawn of Chaos escaped.

As the battle ended, Cetevros IV was devastated. The corrupting touch of Chaos has done its work. The lands grew barren; the sky was thick with stormy clouds. The ground itself groaned and split, forming huge unbridgeable crevasses. It was no longer fit for living things.

The Eldar had won. But in this galaxy victory meant nothing.

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A group of people walked across the blasted landscape. All but one of them wore fluttering robes of green and white, covered with runes of protection. They cradled large, horned helmets to their armored chests, which gleamed a dull white. The last figure was encased in pale armor. A walking caricature of bone, he stalked aloofly ahead of the others. His helmet, molded into a leering skull, turned to examine his surroundings.

Dead trees, bare branches clawing at the sky, dotted the landscape. Here and there lay the remains of a wrecked homestead. The roof gone, the walls collapsed. Looming over the distance was the ruins of the fortress where the Exodites made their last stand. Great holes were torn from the stone masonry. Massive metal gates, once fitted perfectly into the walls, now lay flat upon the dust.

After what seemed to be a nervous discussion, one of the robe-clad figures quickened his pace until he was alongside the armored figure.

"Honored Asurya," he said somewhat hesitantly, "this is the fortress that you requested to see. The records show that it is definitely of pre-Fall design."

"I know, Farseer Fierenn." It was not a single voice, but rather several dozen speaking in harmony, but not quite together. "I have seen such construction."

"Indeed. The fortress was constructed out of local materials, but advanced smelting and constuction methods made it almost as resilient as wraithbone." The Farseer licked his dry lips, " No wonder the Exodites held out for so long…"

They were at the walls. The armored figure raised his weapon, a long-barreled gun from which a curved blade protruded, like the business end of a scythe. He tapped one of the walls still standing, which gave a clinking sound, clear as a bell. "Such skill…" he mused.

"These Exodites preserved their knowledge well." Fierenn replied. "They must have had settled here before the Fall, but the utility and design of their structures suggests that the original settlers did not come from a planet, but from a Craftworld."

The armored figure suddenly turned to face his retinue. The gem on his forehead gleamed blood red in the sunset. "Leave me. I will depart by other means."

"Yes, sir." The Farseer walked briskly back towards the rest of the party, who were waiting outside. He withdrew a rune from his belt pouch, which began to pulse. After a few minutes, a sleek skimmer parted the clouds and touched down before the assembled Farseers. As they prepared to board the vehicle, Fierenn turned and called, "We are honored to have you join the battle, Phoenix Lord. If not, our host would no longer be among the living. We bid you thanks, and Asuryan be with you." With those words, the Wave Serpent glided gracefully into the vanishing horizon.

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"Regardless of what most races think, our race has never, is not, and will never be bound to our Craftworlds. The strength of any empire lies in the number of stars it controls. Here in Biel-Tan, we rigidly adhere to this principle."

-Farseer Fierenn Bielann

Phoenix Lord Maugan Ra was left alone with his thoughts. Strange thoughts that had tugged at him since he entered the system. There was something unusual here, and he was determined to find out. The Mautegar raised and ready, he passed between the broken gates. Beyond those was a charred courtyard, the remains of massive funeral pyres still lay on the singed grass. Maugan Ra strode passed these, his armored soles kicking up clouds of ash. He still had several feet to go before he reached the main hall. Again, something strange compelled him to look at the frame of the doorway. They were ringed with archaic symbols. Runes, he thought. But why these runes? I have seen thousands, nay, millions of these in my lifetime…

Suddenly his suspicions converged, soaring across massive oceans of coalesced knowledge, past jagged peaks of collective understanding, and formed a word so alien to him he nearly didn't recognize it: 

Home.

Yes, he recognizes this place.

Dark memories resurfaced in his mind like forgotten continents. A Craftworld… yes, this citadel did resemble the interior of the gigantic world-ships that most of his race now inhabited. The walls, curved inwards; the pale protruding beams that certainly represented wraithbone, and a repeating color motif that was certainly from that and only that Craftworld…

Altansar.

An outside observer might have seen the light in the eye sockets, dimmed in recollection. A world he had once belonged to, once defended, once loved; a world that tumbled from his grasp and slipped into the spiraling maelstrom that was Chaos. Escaping in a secret webway-portal, he swore vengeance against the Daemon Powers and founded the most sinister warrior aspect of all, the Dark Reapers. He had tried to conceal his grief behind a mask of death, and it has almost succeeded. To him, his past life was merely a vision, a dream to be forgotten.

Maugan Ra pressed on through the ruined citadel. The Exodite bodies have already been removed and cremated as a sign of respect. Nothing was done about the bloodstains however. Or the pieces of fallen masonry. Or the Chaos space marine bodies. Inadequate, thought Maugan Ra as he suppressed the thought to kick aside a severed head. The logical part of his mind reasoned that Cetrevos was merely an established colony. Yet the deeper, more powerful voices reminded him otherwise. Being the only place that reminded him of his long-lost craftworld, it had an almost religious significance to him. He will visit this place later. Although he was due to leave, there was still one thing he needed to find out.

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" There was never any information regarding how the Phoenix Lords travel around the galaxy, slipping unseen among the stars, yet timely appearing alongside the Eldar in assist them in battle. It is rumored that they utilize the webway network that still lies across the Universe like a spider's web, yet not even the Custodians of the dreaded Black Library would dwell on this matter." 

Extracts from Inquisitor Czevark's "Ancient Warriors – the Phoenix Lords of the Eldar examined."

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He noted with interest that a particular set of doors was still intact. Scorched with plasma blasts and riddled with bullet holes, Maugan Ra could nevertheless make out the network of runes covering the portal: Infinity Circuit.

He trembled at that thought. Not a World Spirit? They managed to transport an entire pantheon of ancestors from the Craftworld to this planet? Shaking with apprehension, he looked closer. This was clearly an ordered migration, not an emergency relocation. He did not remember that his Craftworld controlled any colonies, but he alone was not the only one who could predict the coming threat. It was highly possible that the Council of Seers colonized this planet without his knowledge…

The runes began to glow red. Maugan Ra jerked back his head, realizing the security algorithm was still activated. He made a simple gesture, his will breaking apart the complex network of psychic energies that guarded the chamber. To his small satisfaction, the red glow flickered and died. Now the next part was harder.

To enter the Infinite Circuit, he needed to prove his Altansarian identity. With infinite care he grasped the small red waystone set into the center of his forehead, his very first. With a small plink, it came free. Instantly he felt his mind detach from his body for the very core of his being was attached to that stone. Slowly maneuvering his arm he made the fingers plug the stone into a small socket, set into the middle of the intricate network.

It fitted perfectly. On greased hinges, the doors swung open. Carefully replacing the stone to his forehead, Maugan Ra walked into the room. Indeed, on the far wall was a massive tapestry of wraithbone set into the walls, the pattern familiar to so many seers. A massive constellation of blazing souls, each stone a single star in the wraithbone firmament. On each terminal of the matrix was a soulstone, some blue, some green, some amber. They twinkled in the light as if to greet him, and Maugan Ra could feel the collective psychic energies of the Circuit wash over him like a warm tide, beckoning him closer, welcoming one of their own.

He drew the line at joining them. There were too many painful memories. He had vowed to defend the Craftworld, but he had failed in his duty. He had escaped like a coward, like a traitor. He had abandoned his kin to a fate worse than death, eternal torment by their greatest adversary, She Who Must Not Be Named. No amount of death could console his loss.

Instead, he looked on the other walls. He knew that the history of the Craftworld was usually inscribed to the wall in the same chamber as the Infinity Circuit, and the worn texts may give him an inkling of what transpired in this place. Peering at the faded runes, runes that only he alone could understand, he read:

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…At the awakening of the Thieving Goddess, our Craftworld was one of the fortunate few to survive the wave of psychic energy that consumed the Home Worlds. However, we remained perilously close to the Warpspace Overlay commonly known as the Eye of Terror, and it was not long before the seers foresaw our doom.

Maugan Ra nodded. He had foreseen it as well.

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Dozens of craft we sent, seeds of a dying world, into the galactic south. Our ship discovered this verdant world and settled upon it, living a life of isolation. When the transmissions from the Eternal Matrix ceased, we knew that Altansar was dead, and we mourned.

However, we know of the existence of fellow colonies. Our seed was not the only one to land and blossom, for we have made contact with the planet of Lothiar, which we share our origin. The coordinates were lost to an Ork incursion sixty turns ago as our former citadel was burnt to the ground by the barbaric invaders, and finding them again would be nearly impossible.

He frowned. So was all hope lost? Was the only chance to amend his cowardly deeds swept under the iron-hoofed march of time? Feverently, he read on.

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Without advanced guiding equipment, locating it through the twisted network of warpgates would take an eternity. The only other copy of the coordinates exists in the Black Library, the secret archive where the most dangerous and powerful volumes are kept. Yet it is common knowledge that the doors of the Black Library opens to few mortals. For ordinary folk like us, only by doing a great contribution to all Eldar-kind is there any chance of admittance… 

The passage ended there. Mould marks on the pliant wraithbone surface betrayed the hastiness in which it was written.

Maugan Ra put a hand to his chin thoughtfully. So there is a chance…


End file.
